Читать книгу The 13th Apostle - Richard Heller - Страница 9

A few minutes later

Hotel Agincourt, New York City

Abdul Maluka stepped from the shower and stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Black hair dripping, dark skin glistening in the bright light, he liked what he saw. He was short by Western standards, but every inch of his frame was pure muscle. He patted his flat stomach and surveyed his tan shoulders.

Not bad for an old man of forty.

The crescent-shaped scar across his right cheek was the perfect finishing touch. It made him look interesting. Even…sexy.

He had sustained the injury as a result of one of his father’s infamous thrashings, in this case as a direct result of Maluka’s refusal to stand silently by as his father announced to the family that his advanced age no longer permitted him to participate in the Fast of Ramadan.

“You are well enough to lay with your whore whenever she will tolerate you,” a twelve-year-old Maluka had sneered. “How can you say you cannot keep the Fast?”

His father had attempted to stare the boy down.

Maluka’s mother had been in easy earshot. The older man’s discomfort fueled Maluka’s outrage.

“Surely, you can forgo some pleasure in the name of Allah. Or can you not even wait until the sun sets to bury your face in the flesh of that pig,” the youth had added with a laugh.

His father had ripped the worn brown leather belt from the waist of his Western suit of clothes and had beaten the young Maluka with all the strength he could muster. Only when the boy fell to the floor under the torrent of blows, did his father’s fury subside.

“You are not my real father,” the young Maluka had declared. “My father is the spirit of Islam. The poorest devotee to Allah is more my father than you.”

His father added one final blow for good measure; one the boy would never forget. The sharp edge of the buckle caught Maluka across the cheek and left a gash from which blood poured. It was only then that his father smiled with satisfaction.

“Let your faith heal that for you, boy!” he had said triumphantly, then turned, left, and never spoke of the matter again.

Nearly three decades later, the token left by his father’s fury now declared to the world, proof of Maluka’s commitment to Islam. With age, the wound had transformed into a perfect crescent shape whenever he smiled. Not that he smiled all that often.

Maluka pulled on a pair of finely tailored slacks and selected a new silk shirt delivered fresh from his New York shirtmaker, then entered the living room.

Aijaz Bey looked up guiltily. His bulbous bald head, set on a thick neck and huge shoulders, would have made him look unintelligent even if he were bright—which he was not. At six foot six, weighing two hundred and eighty pounds, he was indeed as dangerous as he appeared—and as obedient; two essential attributes which made him the perfect assistant.

The remnants of torn plastic wrappings, wadded up linen napkins, and empty plates, littered the rolling dining cart. Maluka shook his head in resignation. Although Aijaz’s huge hands were skilled at carrying out whatever delicate act with a knife was required, and his skill with a gun was quite remarkable, the man seemed incapable of removing his dinner from a room-service tray without making a mess.

“Couldn’t wait,” Aijaz explained with a shrug and an obsequious smile.

“No problem.”

Aijaz breathed a sigh of relief.

At the sound of the knock at the hotel door, both men straightened.

Aijaz waited for instruction. Maluka raised his hand and silently signaled him to halt. At the second knock, Maluka nodded and Aijaz opened the door.

Clearly startled by Aijaz’s bulk, the man hesitated, then entered. Though no more than forty years of age, his bent back and the downward thrust of his head betrayed the attitude of a man who had been broken on the rack of life. Tall and gaunt, his gray hair slicked back from an overabundance of grease or sweat, their guest offered his right hand to Maluka in greeting. Seeing that no such gesture was about to be returned, he hesitated, then withdrew his hand.

“Sorry, I guess you chaps don’t shake hands,” he muttered with a nervous laugh. “My error.”

When no smile was forthcoming, he checked his watch.

“Look, I’m sorry if I’m a tad early. I just thought that with the weather being what it is, well, you know, better to be early than late. Of course, if I interrupted something…”

His gaze darted from Maluka to Aijaz and back again, desperate for any indication of how to proceed. Maluka was pleased. Robert Peterson, assistant to Professor Arnold Ludlow, was not going to offer any resistance. It wouldn’t take more than fifteen minutes for Maluka to get all of the information he needed. Twenty at most.